Pathways
by Jaz22
Summary: It's just basketball - isn't it?
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: These characters do not belong to me and no profit is being made. Thanks go to Owl for helping me keep my 'who's' and 'whom's' in the right places.

**Pathways**

by Jaz

"Take my word for it – it's easier when you have somebody to hate." Mark McCormick, _Rolling Thunder_

~0~_  
_

Mark dropped heavily onto the bed, his feet on the floor, the basketball still in his hands. The loft was illuminated only by the small lamp on the bedside table; the glow barely cutting through the darkness. His thoughts at the moment were equally dim.

That had been . . . unexpected.

Not that anything about this day had been expected - nothing in the last week really. From the moment he'd first learned of Flip Johnson's death, his life had seemed to be on a path that was no longer in his control. Though if he thought about it, things had been that way for most of his life, but it had been going a little better since his release from prison. He'd begun to think that maybe he might still be able to pull things out of the fire and get back on the right track.

He shook his head and gently dropped the ball to the ground, giving it a shove with his foot. He watched it roll away, coming to a rest under the armchair across from the bed.

Going over the chain of events that had brought him here tonight was probably only going to increase the certainty that insanity was in his future, but he seemed powerless to stop the direction of his thoughts, and he wondered, not for the first time, what in the hell had possessed him to listen to Barb long enough to steal the Coyote. He'd known what he was risking. At least he'd thought he had – a one-way trip back to Quentin, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars.

_This_ scenario had never even entered his mind.

What kind of a lunatic invites a known felon into his home to join him on some kind of a hair-brained, no-holds-barred crusade for justice?

_And what kind of a lunatic says yes?_

When Hardcase Hardcastle, the man who'd held the top spot on Mark's personal black list for the past two long years, had initially approached him with the invitation, Mark had been too full of shock, too full of anger, and too full of hatred to even consider saying yes. He'd turned him down flat, with flair even, and had been dragged back to his cell long before he'd been given a chance to regret his impulsiveness. This was Hardcastle, after all – the man who'd sent him to prison for driving his own car. The man who'd tossed him away like an old gum wrapper. The man who had consumed Mark's thoughts daily in the joint. The man whom Mark had hated with a passion.

The man with whom he'd just played a game of street-rules basketball – and he'd had fun doing it.

So what the hell was he supposed to do with that?

Mark had meant it when he told Barb that it was easier when you had someone to hate. He'd been down that road many times, and hatred for the judge had fueled his time inside – it had given him a reason to get up in the morning, if only to show the old donkey that there was more to Mark than there was to most of the guys in here. Hardcastle had looked at him that day in court and seen nothing but a two-bit hood – a car thief who'd never amount to anything,

Mark McCormick would prove him wrong. He'd do his time; he'd serve his sentence, and once he was released, he wasn't ever going back.

Too bad it didn't work out that way. Six months was all he had managed before he'd done something stupid enough to land him back inside for the next decade.

Mark sighed, standing only long enough to remove his trousers and drop them in a heap on the floor. He switched off the lamp and lay down on top of the covers, folding his arms underneath his head. It had to be well past three o'clock in the morning, but sleep wasn't coming yet. The pounding on the backboard outside his window had been replaced by a pounding inside his head, and pleading for quiet now wouldn't help him any more than it had done forty-five minutes earlier. He smiled grimly, wondering why he'd thought reasoning with the recently retired jurist about the noise level would have gotten him anywhere.

He knew plenty of guys like the Honorable Milton C. Hardcastle. Guys for whom everything was either black or white – they were inflexible, unforgiving, convinced they were right, always seeing the worst in others – there was no room for error in their world. And when error occurred, judgment and punishment were meted out, swift and final. Two long years had given Mark plenty of time to review those facts in his mind. And yet . . .

"_I'm gonna file that under 'who gives a damn'."_

Even now those words caused the smile on his face to become a bit more real. Once he'd gotten over his annoyance, the thought of the old guy out there at two-thirty in the morning, shooting baskets just because it was his routine had amused the hell out of Mark. He had offered to teach Hardcastle a lesson, but it seemed McCormick was the one who'd learned something.

The question was, what would he do with it? That hatred he'd held onto for so long had almost become a part of him, and he wasn't sure he was ready to lay it aside. But he'd given his word, and since that was pretty much all he had to call his own, he wasn't about to go back on it. Hatred or not, he was committed to Hardcastle for the foreseeable future.

But how do you hate a guy who overlooks an elbow to the gut? That alone could have earned the parolee a trip right back down the road they'd just come up. Instead, all it earned him was a face full of mulch and a chance to lecture an officer of the court on the subtle difference between car-repossession and actual theft.

That kind of unexpected behavior left Mark with all kinds of questions. But maybe the questions had started earlier, back in his cell, when he'd been rudely awakened, only to find that the offer was being renewed, but with a twist. It was that twist that had set the hook. That, and the cold reality of staring at a cement ceiling while lying on a paper-thin mattress in itchy, ill-fitting denim. He'd have made a deal with the devil himself at that point – anything to get out from under the reality of ten long years locked away.

Though at one time he might have seen him that way, Hardcastle didn't seem quite as much like the devil now.

Not after the jurist told Mark they'd go after Cody.

Not after he promised to help the ex-con seek the vengeance that Flip deserved.

_Not after the judge believed him._

That was really what had planted the seeds of doubt now wrapping around his carefully nurtured hatred.

That was what made McCormick see there might be more to this man he'd loathed for so long.

That was what made him say 'yes' to this whole crazy idea.

The basketball game had just been another piece of the pie.

~0~

Mark breathed in deeply and exhaled loudly before rolling onto his side and pulling the previously discarded blanket over him. The comfort of the mattress was beginning to get to him, and he was more than willing to put this day behind him. Who knew what tomorrow would hold? This road of hatred he'd been on had been a long, lonely path, and while he wasn't sure he could just toss it aside, it hadn't brought him a whole lot of luck so far. But thinking about it tonight wasn't getting him anywhere. Maybe he'd just have to wait and see. Maybe things would be clearer with the start of a new day. Maybe there would be a new path waiting for him.

Maybe, just maybe, his luck was about to change.


	2. Chapter 2

"Now don't get me wrong, McCormick. I'm not looking for us to be buddies." Judge Milton C. Hardcastle, _Rolling Thunder_

~0~

Hardcastle laid his toothbrush on the sink's edge and switched off the bathroom light, making his way across the darkened room by memory. He sat on the bed, removing his slippers and sliding his legs under the quilt. He was more tired than he could remember being in quite a while, but it was a good tired. Sore too, though he might not be as willing to admit that.

That had been . . . unexpected.

He honestly hadn't given it a thought, the fact that the kid's bedroom was behind the basketball hoop. Not that it would have mattered if it had occurred to him – he meant it when he said he didn't give a damn. He was shooting his nightly baskets, and that was that.

But when the ex-con had come outside, trying to reason with him, only to follow that up with an offer to 'teach him a lesson'; well, it had amused the hell out of him. He couldn't picture old J. J. Beale coming out and holding his own in a game of guerrilla basketball, at least, not without actual weaponry being involved. Of course, Beale's bedroom had never been anywhere near the basketball hoop – the gardener's trailer was on the other side of the lot. And he wasn't about to examine his reasoning for putting his latest rehabilitation project in the gatehouse instead. Nobody's damn business but his own.

He laid back against the pillows, wincing slightly at the soreness across his abdomen, compliments of a recent elbow to the gut. Most guys probably would have been a bit more bureaucratic in their retribution than to simply send the kid sprawling. Most guys might have sent him packing, instead, or at the very least given him a firm lecture about certain rules that were not meant to be broken.

Most guys wouldn't be playing basketball at two-thirty in the morning with a convicted felon.

_Hah. Most guys wouldn't have brought the convicted felon home to begin with._

Well, it was a good thing he wasn't 'most guys'. Besides, he'd been down this road a few times already, and he thought he had a pretty good handle on things. The ones who'd been here before knew the rules. Keep 'em on a short leash, let 'em know where they stood and things would be fine. That's all some of these kids needed – a little discipline, someone around to point out what they were doing wrong, and some good, honest hard labor. He had plenty of that in mind for the newest resident of Gull's Way.

The basketball though – that had been a pleasant surprise. The kid could play. Gave him more of a workout than his free throws and layups ever had. Not only that, it had been . . . fun. Even when McCormick had threatened him, the judge had found himself grinning like the devil. The kid's threat sounded more like that of a growling puppy, all bark and no bite. Not a lot of danger there.

He gave as much as he took, and Hardcastle had found himself enjoying the action. Betting on his pulse rate had been an impulse, but the jurist found he missed having someone around to compete with. And that's all it was – just some good, honest competition.

They weren't going to be friends.

No, there was no point to that, and he was glad he'd made that abundantly clear right at the start. This plan of his would never work if he allowed friendship into the mix. There had to be that distance, otherwise things could get tricky. A working relationship was the best thing for both of them - one where the kid knew who was in charge, and knew where he stood. Hardcastle already had plenty of friends, even if he didn't spend a whole lot of time being social. But there were people he could count on in a pinch. A few, anyway. There was no need to allow a fast-talking, smart-mouthed ex-con into that circle.

Even if the kid did make him laugh.

Maybe it would be best to lay it all out for McCormick again. Go over the rules once more, so there wouldn't be any doubt. Put the kid back in his place. It wouldn't do any good to let the ex-con think he could be anything more than what he'd been brought here to be. Hardcastle would remind the young man of what he'd agreed to – life as a fast-gun in exchange for freedom. Relative freedom. And chores. Plenty of those.

He rolled over onto his side, scrunching up the pillow beneath his head. Yeah, that's what he'd do. In the morning, he'd lay it all out for the young man. Make sure he toed the line. Hardcastle hadn't had the best of luck with some of his rehabilitation projects. Most of them, really, though Beale had been the worst by far. But he learned from his mistakes, and he'd keep this one in line.

This one would be different.

This one had what it took.

This one would make it.

Hardcastle sighed contentedly as he felt sleep pulling at him, and he found himself looking forward to the morning for the first time in quite a while.

Maybe, just maybe, his luck was about to change.


End file.
